5/06/2004

The beaver chews a logleaves soggydried out in the cabinsmoking wood and salmonhumming birds sip honeytinker bell ringing on the phone;farmer’s wife takes my pulse‘you should eat a banana’I nod ‘good advice’ and roll a fag.

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I need to finda newspaperto check out ‘New in Homes’looking for a place to rentamong the catacombs.

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I ran away from winterout of gridlock, into crowdedblankness, muffledhitchhiking on the off rampsstuck out my swollen tonguecursed at by underpass tramps--‘get your own damn place to think.’

I snuck into the dressing roomCherry Blossom Studiosasked the makeup artistto make me Valentinobut he laughed and rolled his eyes--‘we don’t condone libido.’I enlisted at the dating baseclicked on the singles scene(I don’t mind discrete reminderslike ‘you could use some Listerine’)

I dried out on the wagonthe vodka cured my kneesbut it made me vicioustooI never knew what dreams were trueI always woke up screaming.

So I begged my professora reference lettera scholastic potpourri‘please send it by Decemberaddressed to Mr. Gandhi’(not making loveor warsounds likea good idea to me.)

And yesterdayI was cutting up an onion--tears add flavour to soup--when you walked in witha five-course dinnerfrom a five-star restaurant;

and soso muchfor honest eating,what could I do butacceptyou in my home?